Well, I’m still alive. I think. A combination of stress and research now means that I’ve developed a wibbly eyelid and two different head ticks. I think the eyelid annoys only me, but the head ticks are a bit much for the general public. The main one involves my head shaking itself in a perfectly understandable ohpleaseno kind of motion. I’ve tried to adjust this into a more positive yeswhynotifIhaveto noddy thing – but this often simply causes the two to combine and then involve me lashing about in elongated spasms that no doubt translate as fallingdownawell fallingdownawell.
Meanwhile the first Pencilfest at Warwick – organised by student writers for student writers – went off rather well and was, I’d have to say, better organised than several long-established festivals I could name. I think their choice not to have a giant parrot mascot was probably a mistake, but otherwise all was delightful, the sun shone with enthusiasm and nobody died or spontaneously combusted during my event (comedy about writing) which is always a plus. My other comedy gigs ranged between – “This is grand and I wish to do it for the rest of my life,” and the rather more downbeat “You were mostly here last month when I did much of the same material, weren’t you? Please bear with me and I shall not be so slapdash again – it’s just that my brain can only produce so much Funny in a 4 week period, given that all I’ve been doing is working. I have been unforgivable and will now make a noise like a hoop and roll away.” I am packing the notebook with new Funny, even as I type this. Can’t be tedious for the lovely ladies and gentlemen.
It’s been drawn to my attention – by my bank statement – that, although I’m ricocheting off the UK’s corners and expending energy I’m borrowing from future generations, I’m not actually earning any money at the moment. Or not quite enough to balance my perfectly reasonable outgoings. Another week of this and I’ll have to stop waiting for something to turn up and try to manufacture something – despite attending two festivals next week and disappearing into London again for research purposes. I feel that if I don’t sleep or go to the toilet, spare time could be created for additional lucrative endeavours.
I should, of course, be tapping away at a new (and entirely unprofitable) short story – and may tonight – but the rest of the daylight hours may well be occupied in writing begging letters to people who could assist me with the next novel’s more factual and elusive bits. I am fantastically bad at asking for help, don’t seem to be able to do it in person at all and tend to feel that emotionally blackmailing busy people to do work for you for nothing is fairly inexcusable. Beginning a letter to a total stranger with “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t deserve to live…” is perhaps not a good idea and so much rewriting ensues.
The high point of last weekend was, naturally, the marriage of Christine Cloughly (dance teacher, social butterfly and accountant) to Paul Sneddon (comic) which took place both on Saturday and Sunday. First, the conventional service – with the traditional interval for watching Dr Who – and then they joined many comics and other excellent people at The Stand Comedy Club in Edinburgh for a second, entirely unnecessary showbiz marriage at which I was proud to officiate in my capacity as ordained (by mail) minister. They’re two splendid people, have been happy together for ages and will, I hope, be even happier now.